Death and the Devil
by Cozzybob
Summary: Two men drink their lives away in God's Bar, trading confessions for the bitter silence of loneliness. Misery loves company... and beer. Very good, needs reviews. Posted all at once. Semi-complete.
1. In God's Bar

**Death and the Devil Arc.  
**--In God's Bar

**Pairs: **yaoi fangirls will scream 2-6-2, but in reality, it's gen.

**Warning: **language, semi-religious, maybe a little blasphemy (maybe), adult situations, dark, possibly OOC

**A/N: **This is an arc thatwas built using both the gw500 and gwjeopardy communities on livejournal. Although each "chapter" can act as a stand-alone of sorts, the fics will be posted back to back as a story to save space and confusion. The arc focuses on Duo and Zechs' first meeting one year after EW, and though the men do grow a little close before the end, this is NOT shounen-ai. Or at least, it's not intended to be, but you can assume whatever you want. Safe for both the yaoi and non-yaoi alike, and dedicated to anyone to loves a little generality. Thanks.

'In God's Bar' was originally written for the gw500 lj community, challenge #47 'signs.'

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The Good Bar. I suppose it's a stupid name for a bar, but I wasn't here when they named it. It makes me wonder what the hell bar was ever good, but really I have no say in the matter. What do I have to stand on, bitching about names? I've got two of them and they're both crazy mother fuckers. Right? So the media tells me.

I stare at the electric neon sign hanging out the window. One the of the O's are missing and it says, "the God bar," in bright blue neon letters. Open from 9am-2am, last drink at 1:30, we start tossing whenever we damn feel like it. If you aren't here to drink, don't come in, and if you do get drunk, don't complain to the bartenders. God doesn't like that very much.

I snort.

It's a very small bar, one of those back street dumps that people run to when they don't want to face the cruelties of main street. They've got a bunch of whores that hang out in the front, and most of them do their business in this rutty little bathroom behind the cash register, the bartender only giving disapproving glances every now and again as he lets his john become the local fuck-pit. Not that I care. If a man wants to waste himself away on cheap pleasure, who am I to stop him?

I watch silently as a woman in a cheap fur coat (falling apart in several sections) drags a man by his necktie, a faked hungry look on her face, about as real as the title of Prince of Sank. She takes him to the pre-mentioned bathroom, and I catch the gold flash of a wedding band on her delicate ring finger. I don't bother to comment on it, and I ignore everything, turning back to the bartender with what I hoped was a neutral expression. I was angry at the world, but I didn't want the world to know it. The world was already angry at me as it were.

"Sir," he says innocently.

"Don't ever call me that!" I wince at the violence in my tone, and try desperately to soften it. "Call me--" I have to think about this seriously. Everyone knows who Milliardo is, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out Zechs. I wave vaguely into the air and sigh. "Call me Joe. Good name for a drunk."

He nods stiffly, like a damn soldier.

I sigh again, and bitterly, and turn back to the neon sign hanging out the window. I ordered light beer because I didn't come to drink so much as just wallow in the atmosphere of city life. It was where I needed to be, where I could feel sorry for myself without having to drown in Noin's disapproving glare, without having to look at the shame in Relena's eyes, without having to be called fucking _Milliardo _everywhere I went. I think the tender knew that, because he's tried to kick me out several times. Problem is, he's scared to death of me and I have no idea why.

I mean... I'm not going to blow up the world or anything.

A fly beside me mutters into his beer. I don't catch the slurred statement, but I know he's talking to me because he points to the sign I've been staring at for several minutes now. When I raise my brow in confusion, the man thumps his pint back on the counter and spins, waving at the blue neon as if hailing a cab. In a slightly slurred voice he says, "Don't you think it's ironic that the devil would brood in God's bar?"

I frown. "The devil? Hm. I don't believe in the devil and I don't believe in God."

He spits a wad of yellow phlegm on the wooden floor, scrapes his stool back and looks at me with a knowing expression. Even in the drunken haze, he seemed to know me very well--or rather, perhaps because of it.

"Bullshit," he says firmly, surprising me. "You _are _the devil, and the devil doesn't believe in God, but he knows him on a personal basis and loathes the very thought of him. Believe me, I know."

I snort. Hypocritical propaganda. "I'm not buying a bible from you," I counter rudely.

But he doesn't even blink. "I know who you are and I know what you did. The whole fucking world knows what you did. Do _you_ know what you did?"

Suddenly, I'm getting very angry. I glare at him, but it has no effect.

He sighs and slumps back on his stool, drowning himself with his beer again. "You don't remember me, do you?"

I shake my head. The anger is gone, as fast as it had come. I'm left with confusion.

He shrugs. "I was one of the men you almost slaughtered with Epyon." I gasp and he waves a hand vaguely. "One of the many, I guess. Weird how I got out alive, but I guess God likes me." He looked at me significantly, like he was spelling it out for me to read. It was like reading another language. "God doesn't like you, though."

"Why not?" It was all could say. I really wanted to know for some reason.

He shrugs again. "You're the devil, I told you."

I grunt and drown my beer, motioning the tender for stronger alcohol. The tender gives me a shot of whiskey, and I nod my thanks, silently ignoring the other man sitting next to me. It was a full minute or two before I finally mutter "...Is the devil always born from a pacifist family?"

He laughs and nods. "Every fuckin' time man."

"And does he always feel guilty about what he does?" I do feel guilty. I always have and probably always will.

He sobers and says, "That's what the devil is all about."

I nod slowly and ask my final question. "Does the devil always brood in God's bar?"

He laughs again, this time heartily. He shakes his head and his voice is heartfelt. He is not angry that I almost killed him during the war, and it makes me wonder why. With a grin, he says, "Does the Devil always flirt with Death?"

That makes my heart lurch.

The fly I've been speaking to was wearing a black cap over his head, mahogany bangs spilling over jeweled cobalt, as if hiding. I suddenly frown, thinking that I'd seen him before somewhere, that his voice was suddenly so damn familiar...

"Fuck Zechs, will you ever learn?" He pulls off his cap and one long braid tumbles down his back, brushing against his ass as he shifts on the stool. He grins even wider and sticks out his hand. I cannot breathe.

"Duo Maxwell, at your service. It's nice to finally meet you, Satan."

Without a word, I take Death's hand, warm and oddly comforting. We make our greetings, a pact between the Devil and Death alone.

In God's Bar.


	2. Death's Two Faces

**Death and the Devil Arc  
**--Death's Two Faces

Pairings: hinted 2-H... possible 2-6-2 if you tilt your head and squint--hard.

Warning: language, adult situations, lil dark, some blasphemy, possibly OOC (for safety), mention of Post-EW, a mirror-fic of "In God's Bar." Duo's half of the story.

'Death's Two Faces' was originally written for the gw500 lj community, challenge #48 'mediums.'

* * *

'You're always two faces, Duo,'she told me, before it happened. I was still on L2, in that crummy little apartment, sharing rent with the girl of my dreams who didn't want anything to do with me. Not until I stopped acting like a fool.

But I am a fool.

Two faces, she'd said.

'...Two goddamn faces and two goddamn lives, two fucking sides to a war that's never gonna end. Until you can draw a line between those two faces and make a choice, I can't do this anymore. Face your demons, Duo. Face them and... find yourself. It's not here.'

She'd basically told me to grow up and get out.

But I suppose she's right. Hilde always was right, even when she walked the wrong side of the fence. She was a tough broad, always had been. I think I loved her for that--she's just... she was stable. She's the only stability that I'd ever had in a very long time, the only stability I had the _chance _of having and I--the greatest fuck-up of them all--tossed it all away on a romp with a twenty cred slut who was perfectly innocent on that L2 street corner under the sign of Harriet Tubmen and St Jude, smoking her cigarette and eyeballing the guys with the big pockets and the diamond rings. I raped a whore. I did. And I didn't even like it.

I don't know. You try walking around my skull sometime, and you'll see just how fucked up Shinigami really is. I couldn't tell sanity off the face of God itself--yes, it, because I'm almost positive that _thing _upstairs swings both ways, every way and all ways in between. Like me, I think.

Yeah. Like me.

I pick up another chug of my gundam-fuel beer and swallow it in large gulps, not even wincing as the stuff eats at my throat like little leaches with razor teeth. The pain won't matter after enough of these shots, and I don't want anything to matter--me, Shinigami, my failure with Hilde and my uncontrollable fascination for all things wrong with the world.

I'm in a bar on Earth, I don't even remember which country, city and date, drinking myself into oblivion so I can commit to my mission of forgetting everything, everyone and move on. I have to keep moving. I can't stay here, stay stable, stay in the middle forever.

I just can't.

A man sitting next me is staring at the window, has been for quite some time. I think it odd, so I look up and notice the sign--it says "The God Bar" in bright blue neon letters, a missing O telling tale of lies and hidden messages. It's actually called The Good Bar, but I think God fits it better. It works with the infidelity lingering in the air--the sinful saints who want nothing more than a good fuck, desperate to feel something other than mundane life for a change.

I suppose I belong here.

The man who'd been staring at the sign suddenly snorts, and I watch as he catches the gaze of a married prostitute dragging in her customer toward the back, the golden band around her finger regretful, but somehow accepting. Everyone has a story, and everyone has a john. I don't bother to care.

The man turns back to the bartender, who had been standing there, waiting for an order close to ten minutes. The bartender is afraid of him, though the man himself is not very intimidating--rather, he's like an overused book that has too many pages torn, too many secrets uncovered to fully understand. I frown, noting the odd color of his hair, and the incredible length of it. The way he moves and assesses the situations screams 'general,' whether he'd be aware of it or not.

The bartender fidgets, determined to get his order, but he makes a mistake. He calls the man sir.

"Don't ever call me that!" The man is furious, and I wonder, my heart lurching in twisted ways because I suddenly think that I've seen this man before... somewhere...

I know I've heard that voice before.

The man frowns, his face softening with effort. He narrows his eyes, trying to formulate the right response. "Call me..." A long pause. "Call me Joe. Good name for a drunk."

The bartender nods stiffly and turns away, and the man at my side scowls at his back.

I smile--no I _grin /I _, and pick up my beer for another swig of alcohol. I suddenly know who he is, like a bolt of lighting flashing across the back of my eyelids. "Fucking Zechs Marquise," I mutter, but it's slurred because I'm half-drunk and I know he didn't catch it. I look at him, see his white brows raise questioningly, those fiery lilac eyes confused and... old.

He looks like the devil. He does. I don't understand it, but I think if the devil ever walked the Earth, he'd go under the name of Peacecraft and wear long white hair, bearing the look of an angle minus black wings. I smirk and wave my hand toward the broken neon sign in the window. "Don't you think it's ironic that the devil would brood in God's bar?"

He only frowns at me. "The devil? Hm." He thinks about it for a second, and firmly shakes his head. "I don't believe in the devil and I don't believe in God."

I spit a wad of phlegm built up from deep in my throat and scrape my stool back, looking at him, staring at him, trying to understand him. I can see it in his eyes. He's lying to himself.

"Bullshit," I say to him and he looks surprised. "You I _are /I _the devil, and the devil doesn't believe in God, but he knows him on a personal basis and loathes the very thought of him. Believe me, I know."

He snorts. "I'm not buying a bible from you."

I almost laugh. "I know who you are and I know what you did. The whole fucking world knows what you did. Do _you_ know what you did?"

He looks pissed, but not in the way I wanted. He's confused. I sigh lightly and slump back on my stool, taking another lasting swig of my beer. "You don't remember me, do you?"

He shakes his head. He's not angry anymore.

I shrug. "I was one of the men you almost slaughtered with Epyon." He makes a sound of something between a gasp and a growl, but I wave a hand vaguely, not really caring. "One of the many, I guess. Weird how I got out alive, but I guess God likes me... God doesn't like you, though."

"Why not?" He sounded genuinely curious.

I shrug again, almost rolling my eyes. "You're the devil, I told you."

He grunts and drowns his beer, ignoring me for a good long minute or two. After eternity he asks, "...Is the devil always born from a pacifist family?"

I laugh. "Every fuckin' time man."

"And does he always feel guilty about what he does?"

Zechs Marquise feels guilty? But I look at him and I nod. I can understand that. "That's what the devil is all about."

His lips firm, almost unconsciously. "Does the devil always brood in God's bar?"

I laugh, this time hard. I can't help myself. "Does the Devil always flirt with Death?"

Ahh. There it is. The flicker of recognition.

"Fuck Zechs, will you ever learn?" I roll my eyes and pull off the black cap hiding my braid, feeling it tumble down behind me. "Duo Maxwell," I say smoothly, "...at your service. It's nice to finally meet you, Satan."

He is speechless.

One year has passed since Mariemeia. One year has passed since I said goodbye to my buddy, said goodbye to Death and faced the unknown world of freedom. Peace. Stability.

One year has passed since I'd heard the name Zechs Marquise--even if he did go by the name of Wind.

Hilde accused me of never staying in the mediums. She said I always had to be on the outside looking in, that I had to be the little dot outside of the box, the jester in a family court case, the laughing mask before the eyes of as convict. She said I couldn't handle being a middle man because I never was and never will be an average suburbian follower; I won't mow my lawn every morning and take out the trash every Thursday and garden my petunias in the little patch before my fenced in home with the dog that barks until midnight and the kids that knock over expensive knick-knacks you haven't notice in years. She said I can't be the middle man, the peaceful man, the man with a definition and a cause. She said I can't be--could never be--in a house, one small little house in one small little family with two small little kids who love one small little dog for the rest of my--so young, so old--damn life.

I could never do it. But then... neither could Milliardo Peacecraft.

I lend out my hand, asking the Devil to make a pact with Death.

I will never be in the medium, because I am a fool and my name is Duo Maxwell. Like the Devil, I have two faces, and like Death, I am one with it.

Zechs only smiles and takes my hand.

We agree with each other. The contract is closed.

All is forgiven.


	3. Love Live of a Broken Marquise

**Death and the Devil Arc**  
--The Love Life of a Broken Marquise

Pairing: possible 2-6-2 (but not intended), mention of 6-9 and 13-/x6

Warning: language, adult situations, drunkenness, mention of the battle in Antarctica, OOC?

'The Love Life of a Broken Marquise' was originally written for the gwjeopardy lj community. The challenge was category Zechs for 500, and the question was 'friends and lovers.'

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I don't know how long I sat there, wondering how it all happened. One minute I was alone in a bar with demons and broken masks for comfort, and the next I was looking into the eyes of Duo Maxwell, Shinigami aka the God of Death. I'm sure he felt the same way, though I can't read his eyes, I can't read his face.

I don't know what he thinks of me. Am I stained? Am I beautiful?

He calls me the devil. He says that I am Satan, that if the devil were to ever walk the Earth, he would take the name of Peacecraft and drench his own hands with blood. His says that the devil would still feel guilty--as I do--about his sins, but he would do it, he would kill, simply because it was in his nature to do so. As the devil, he knows no other difference. He is darkness. And Duo says that Epyon was an obvious clue to my nature--built by Trieze, stolen by Heero and traded with me for Zero. Zero was an angel, and Heero was its calling, wreathed with two tremendous white wings of pure gundanium and a power unmatched by any other machine. I could not control Zero because I was not an angel--I was not its proper pilot and I was not destined to fight with it. No, and Heero could not control Epyon, because Epyon was a devil, and Heero--being an angel--did not belong in hell. Epyon was hell, adorned in blood red with leather black wings and eyes so hateful, my skin still crawls to remember. Epyon's weapon was a whip--a heated gundanium whip that could shred any Taurus apart like paper mache through a grater. I was born in hell, I was made for hell, and Epyon was my calling. I suppose with that logic, I really might actually be Satan.

And though I've only known him for about five minutes, I suppose I should give Duo more credit for his observation. He asks like a fool, but his mind runs like a footman in the first charge of battle.

Gunshots are fired, from somewhere down the city. I hear it, faint, and I see a flicker in Duo's eyes, a sign. The breathless shape of a grin. Wry. He's heard it too.

Someone died just now...

Someone was murdered.

I smile too, in an odd kind of way, and lean my stool closer to his. I order another scotch, mixing my alcohol like a good little convict, my brain fuddled with looping thoughts. But then Duo leans away from me, his chin propped up in his hand as he takes his own swig of beer. He doesn't seem very affected by it, as I have been. Though drunk, he doesn't slur too much, and he has control of his actions. He's graceful. Like a cat.

Perhaps Maxwell has the more experience with beat up bars in the backcountry...

I don't know.

"Zechs, you ever loved anyone?"

That thought takes me completely by surprise and I don't even acknowledge the dull thump of another shot glass hitting the counter, the bartender apprehensive as he dodges my name like a fly to a swatter. I don't breathe.

"W-What?"

Duo laughs casually and shakes his head. He's nervous, I can tell. I've only known him for about five--no, six--minutes, and now I feel like I've known him my entire life.

Duo sighs. "Love," he says as he waves a hand vaguely in the air. "What's the love life of a Marquise?"

I wince. "Don't call me that. Don't call me any of that. If you have to call me anything, just call me..." I squint my eyes, temporarily lost in my train of thought. I look at Duo stupidly, the room waving up and down and sideways like a writhing eel speared on a hook. The boat rocks, the room trembles and my voice catches up with me again before I can lose my stomach. "Call me Joe. Remember? Good name for a drunk. Yeah... a drunk."

Duo lifts an eyebrow and laughs again, somehow amused. "Okay ...Joe. What's the love life of a Joe? There are rumors, you know."

"Rumors?"

"The you-and-Treize rumors. Back in the war, everyone was talking about it."

Suddenly I laugh. I laugh so hard, I can't stop myself, and when Duo looks at me, his eyes wide with shocked curiosity, I can only laugh some more. After what had to be several years of maniacal babbling, I finally cool down enough to slip into my pre-ordered scotch.

My voice is rough when I speak.

"...Fuck Treize? Yeah. I guess I fucked em. Fucked em like a whore, I think." I'm smirking, like the devil should.

Duo just looks disapprovingly at me.

I sigh again and wave without direction, as if shooing away a demon buzzing in my ear, poking my brain. Screaming...

"Yeah," I say again, to stop the chaos. "I may have loved him. Like a brother, you know. We never had the chance for anything else; he was always on the top and I on the bottom." I snort, barely restraining the laughter again. I know I'm getting hysterical. I hate talking about Treize.

But I think I could tell Duo anything.

I shake my head awkwardly, in denial. "Never got the chance. Never did. I wanted to, but the only fuck I got was when I survived my second death, in Antarctica. I fucked em good, then. He knew it too, but that was when any chance of a relationship between us had ended. I'm sure you heard about it... that was when I finally broke that goddamn mask." I take a swig of the scotch, revel in the burning of my throat, and then sip the water on my right. I close my eyes briefly as I feel a strange wetness behind them... building...

But I open them again and sneer at Duo--well, not at Duo, more like with. "I hated that fucking mask..."

"What about Noin?" Again, the question is sudden. Perhaps Duo is just a sudden kind of person. Spontaneous. Unpredictable.

Like death?

I shrug. "What about her?"

"Don't you love her? You left with her after Mar--"

"No," my voice was cooler than I intended. "She doesn't... I..." I have think about it slowly, my tongue tied in a hangman's noose. Finally I just shrug again. "I don't deserve her," I mutter quietly. I've never deserved anyone.

And Duo is persistent.

"...Have you ever loved anyone?"

I sigh. I don't answer.

He waits.

"...Yes," my voice betrays after eternity passes me by. "I suppose so."

"Suppose so?"

I frown. I don't understand the question.

Duo sighs again and looks back into his drink. He smiles oddly, almost... old.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."


	4. The Truth

**Death and the Devil Arc**  
--The Truth

Pairs: possible 2-6-2 (but not intended), mention of past 2-H

Warnings: direct sequel to "The Love Life of a Broken Marquise," language, adult situations, drunkenness, Ep Zero sorta-kinda-maybe spoilers for Duo, Cozzy sap, anti-Holidays angst, OOC?

'The Truth' was originally written for the gw500 lj community, challenge#49 'Thanksgiving.'

-----------

"What about you?"

Even drunk, his voice is smooth. I have to wonder how he does that, but then I remember that this is Zechs Marquise, the man born on smooth talk. If he's anything like his sister, I'm sure he does it without fully knowing how to control it. Relena always was the smooth talker, wasn't she?

Yeah.

I snort.

He sighs in his drink and looks at me significantly. He told me about his love life, and now it's my turn.

I shrug. "Nothing to tell," I say, and of course that's a half-truth. I may never lie, but I can twist like yoga. By the flash in his lilac eyes I know that he knows but he says nothing, waiting for the spill.

I wait beside him.

Damn Hilde anyway, what she did have to do with anything? I don't suppose I loved her... well, maybe I did, but not real honestly. I mean, I...

Hell. I don't fucking know. He's asking the wrong guy about love.

"You ever love anyone?" I'll give him credit, the man is persistent.

I shrug again, trying desperately to retain my dignity. "I..." I can't lie. I can't lie...

I cannot lie to Zechs...

Damn it. "Yes," I say. "I've loved a lot of people." I wave a hand, as if to signal the mass of ghosts luring around me, following me in my steps through the passage of life. "Too many people." I know he can hear the pitiful sigh in my voice.

He just nods in silent understanding and mutters. "...Dead?"

Hm. Can't hide anything, can I? I shrug.

He snorts and I look at him, wondering the reasoning of this conversation. He just shrugs with me, all of us shrugging, shrugging away what was taken from us. We don't want it anymore.

He reads me silently, my soul an open book, its chains unbound. He says nothing and I shiver under the scrutiny, my walls building over again, the brick blocks sealed with cement. I have to fill the silence, cruel and demeaning as it is. I have to hear myself talk, to know that I'm still alive, still breathing, still moving, still trying...

"You know what today is?" My voice is hard and I wince in the aftermath.

He waits, his eyes flickering. He doesn't know. He probably never celebrated; Sank isn't exactly American soil.

"Thanksgiving," I mutter. The thought brings me back to L2, to the cold streets, the ghosts, the fires, the markets, the... church. Again I shiver, and I silently curse my weakness. Why am I brooding about this? Why do I care? I haven't cared for six fucking years, why should I care now?

But as I look at him, I do. I care. I care because I know he knows that I have always cared, and I've been lying to myself the entire time. He's just made me remember again.

Strange, isn't it? The Devil made me care. Made me whole again. Ha.

"Never liked Thanksgiving. Never did." I slump into my stool, my eyes darting away from the intense lilac storm probing into me. He is no longer smooth--or rather, the smoothness of his skin is exposed for the roughness underneath. He is scarred. Jagged. Broken. Like silk over a bed of nails

"Why not?" He is genuinely concerned and for some reason, I smile at that. It's been a while since anyone really listened to me speak. Wanted me to.

I give it to him. I don't want to dodge anymore. "Back on L2... they used to have parties on Thanksgiving. The gangs would join with their allies and pig out on the combined prizes that they'd all stolen. It was never anything much, but it was good. I remember So--a friend... used to steal a chicken for us, every year. Meat is extremely hard to come by on the colonies and chicken was off the wall--let alone a turkey--and they used to barricade the grocery stores with AK-47's and shoot orphans on sight when they spotted them trying to snatch one. But this... friend... was good at what he did. He would track the richer people going in and out of the store and would follow them when they drove off to home. The richer ones always had good security, but Sol... was the best stealth for miles around and no one ever stopped him. He'd just go right in, take their chicken out of the fridge and disappear without a trace. He never even had to hurt anyone, he was that good." I pause then mutter. "I never did catch on to that trick..." I frown thoughtfully to myself and I know my voice is starting to drone in the onslaught of memories.

I don't care.

"I didn't like Thanksgiving then, because I would always have to spare my meat for the younger kids, would always have to be on the lookout for trouble, always watching the allies warily and always playing the strong one, the good one, the one that..." I swallow a hard lump in my throat. "The one that wouldn't die. I... didn't have anything to be thankful for, I was just some ungrateful bastard--literally--who had nothing. Nothing, you know?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't move. I don't expect him too.

I sigh again and take a swig of the drink, coughing when it burns my throat raw.

"Years passed, and So--he... died, and I ended up in a church... an orphanage. Had real thanksgiving dinner, not the best from what I hear, but definitely good. We had chicken again, like always, because it was so much easier to get a hold of. It was a good-sized chicken too... she made it real, with the gravy and everything. It was one the best dinners of my life. I loved that family, even if I wouldn't say grace when the Father asked me to." I snort bitterly. "They died the next day."

It was true. The day after Thanksgiving was the day Father Maxwell and Sister Helen died. I suppose that's another reason why I can't stand this holiday.

"During the war, I was captured on Thanksgiving. Spent it playing tickle-me-bloody with a bowie knife, screaming my ass off. Even after the first war, in between Mariemeia, I hated it. I was supposed to have dinner with Hilde and the guys and I walked out on them. I walked out because..." I shrug yet again. "...because I had to. This holiday is the day I pretty much lost everyone I've ever loved. This day... sucks."

I drink to that, tipping my head back to swallow the last of it. I signal the bartender for another. I want to be stone-fucking-drunk now.

"That's why I asked you if you've ever loved, Ze--Joe." He raises an eyebrow and I nod. "It just seems to be you'd be able to understand the fear of that word, that L-word. The fear of the fact that if you l-love anyone... they'll die. Fear for their life at the expense of your companionship. Raped by a man's pursuit of happiness..."

I shiver as I feel his eyes on me.

"Why?" It's all he says.

But I know what he's asking. Not 'Why tell me this,' not 'Why did it happen,' only... 'Why.' Just why. The big fat why.

Why?

"Because," I answer. "Just because."

He looks at me critically, his eyes roving my body and he nods. In a silent voice he says, "I believe that is the first time I have ever heard Duo Maxwell tell the truth."

I laugh hysterically, tears flowing fresh from my eyes for the first time in my life.

I believe him.


	5. The Walls of War

**Death and the Devil **  
--The Walls of War 

Pairs: possible 2-6-2 (but not intended), refs to 13-/x6, 6-9

Warning: sequel to "The Truth," drunkenness, language, depression, spoilers for Zechs' past, Cozzy sap, the usual.

Note: Looks like Death and the Devil came to a very abrupt ending. I had NO idea it was going to end here, but it is, and I like it. Don't worry though, I'm going to write a few alternate endings for your yaoi-ful ness, one that is indeed a real 2x6x2 (with lime!) and one that is... not. Enjoy! If you prod me enough, I may do another arc in this style! Hehe...

Dedication: This one is now dedicated to by beloved fanboy Adrian, who has prodded and prodded and prodded and _prodded _(and prodded) for some yummy Zechs-ness. Also for the ever faithful D-sama, for my ravenous fan Liz, for Elemental, for Damoyre, for Merith, for Ashkara, for anyone who has ever left a comment (or will) in this arc, and finally, for anyone who is now a 2-6/6-2 fan, despite the fact that this was NOT shounen-ai. Hee. Thank you, you all mean a lot to me. I'm glad the arc kicked all ass, ne? Hee.

'The Walls of War' was originally written for the gw500 lj community, challenge#50 'A brick.' It was _hard_.

* * *

Dorothy said to me on Libra that wine is for men who hide behind dead presidents and masks that will never shatter. She said to me that if I really wanted a spark out of life, mix my scotch, bourbon and beer and burn my throat raw until I bleed.

She always was the sadomasochist. Strange girl.

But she's right. Always had been, and she understood me better then most could ever hope to imagine. I used to pretend that when I drank my wine, it was from the blood of those who had died under my command, or rather, from the blood of men who had died for me out of sheer adoration. Like Treize did.

But don't know, never did. I would watch the smooth red liquid swirl around my fancy crystal glass, watch it spin around and around, wondering why it was so thin. Blood is thicker than water, but wine... it isn't the same.

Dorothy was right, in a sense. Spending my time with Treize in his office, staring out into the world beyond our wine glasses and pretty labels was a lie. I respected Treize, I really did, and he was a good friend to me. But it would always be about the competition, always about who is the smarter, the better, the stronger... the... stable one.

I have made a lot of mistakes. Thinking back on it, I can't even remember why I listened to Treize in the first place, I can't remember... I can't remember why I joined OZ, joined the force that destroyed my home, my family, my mother, my father... My... me. Why? Why did I do it?

Quick revenge, scathing logic, the fact that I had no where else to go. I was alone, abandoned, homeless, destroyed. I was fucking alone. Darlian took Relena to safety while I held onto my father's dead carcass and begged for him to come back to me. Relena grew up in a safe home, was raised as a beautiful fifteen-year-old girl while I was dumped into Victoria like a left-over dinner, abandoned... and alone. Always alone. And dead. Of course, because I was still alive--if only in body--and because everyone knew my face, I was forced to wear that fucking mask that I hated so goddamn much and I lived and trained and breathed and ate and thrived under the enemy's watch, the enemy's look of disconcerting respect. Who is this Zechs Marquise and why he is so fast? Why is he so good? So cold?

Why does he wear that mask?

There were rumors in Victoria that my mask was a cover for some horrible mutilation on my face, one so ugly it could not see the light of the sun. Shame that when I pulled the metal prison from my flesh each night, no physical attributes were there to prove them right. Oh but how right they are, anyway. How right they always have been. Me. Zechs Marquise. The name itself is a scar and its ugliness is far more than skin deep.

My soul is stained.

"Hey Joe..." But then... we both have that problem.

Duo's voice is a bit hoarse, and I hear the ale rumbling in his stomach, in his veins. His eyes are two blue-black pools of utter causality when he asks, "Where the hell did a name like Zechs Marquise come from, anyway?"

The question catches me so off guard, I have to double back, but then I blink, frown uncertainly, and shrug.

"Zechs is German for six," I say softly. My voice is low, as if hiding a secret only he and I should ever know. For some reason, it seems that way, and I lean in closer, as if to prove it. I know no one else would care, but it's important to me. The only man who ever knew is dead, the only woman who would truly understand isn't here anymore, with me, and they both have been gone for a very long time now.

When he gives me an expectant look, clearly not accepting my answer, I clear my throat, crack my knuckles, and form two tight fists around my glass, my tension fairly obvious. I want him to know how hard this is for me. I've never told anyone before... except him.

"My parents... died, when I was six." I snort oddly, not out of contempt, but rather out of frustration. In some ways, that night still terrifies me. It always will.

"They took down the north wall to get passed the perimeter defense--basic defense as per Peacecraft politics. It was too easy when they did it, there was no chance for us. It was like shooting down unarmed civilians." I don't miss Duo's wince. I used the analogy on purpose. "They struck in the dead of night, I remember because I woke from Relena's screaming. I felt the explosion and..."

I blink, the white hot flames flashing before my eyes. I blink again, to clear them. I sigh slowly, shakily. "I don't remember much after that. I know I saw Darlian take Relena away, but I hid low, and he couldn't find me. I don't remember why I hid from Darlian... I think I knew that I wouldn't have gotten revenge if he found me, I wouldn't see these men dead. I knew that I didn't belong there, with him. I... I just didn't want him to find me. So I remember, after Darlian took Relena away, I went into the court yard... to find my parents..."

Damn.

But he asked. I look at Duo, and he looks at me blankly. Not sad, not sympathetic, just... nothing. It is the expression that I need.

My fists grow tighter. "They were dead. Very dead. The bastards cut them to pieces, nothing but..." I choke on air, not able to finish. I have never said it before, and even after all this time, I still won't. Still can't.

After regaining my composure, I sigh again, slowly. Heavily. "Sympathizers came to help... came to pick up... the pieces... and they took me in, after that. They had a funeral for the two of them. Closed casket. They buried an empty one for me. I was there, saw them do it."

"They buried a casket for you?"

I nod slightly, not really paying attention. I was too busy watching the little black box lower into the ground. "They assumed that I had died in the explosions. Said a 'young boy like that could've gotten incinerated from the heat.' Common assumption. Although most knew my face, it was safer, to let the Alliance assume that I was dead. So they buried me with my parents. They buried Relena too, but her headstone was destroyed when she took power in Sank during the war. I requested they leave mine alone."

"Why?"

I look at him and he winces slightly. I wonder vaguely what Duo Maxwell could have seen on my face to cringe away from. "I died that day, as far as I'm concerned. The rest of my life has been nothing but revenge, one after another after another. When they see that child's grave... they'll remember a child. They'll see me, in some small way, see me as I was originally born to be. But they will not see Zechs Marquise."

Duo is silent, perhaps understanding, perhaps not, but I don't really care.

I move on. "Zechs Marquise... died in the war. The first one," I add. I look at him blankly, hoping that no emotion betrays my face. "He died on Libra. You, Heero and all your comrades killed him." When he is about to protest, I cut back in. "But Zechs had two deaths. He was already dead when you killed him, had been for months. Treize killed him. He died for Treize." I think about that for a moment and then I snort in amusement. "Died in Antarctica. Can't get any colder than that, and you can't get more south."

"You died for Treize?"

"In a way you could say that I always will. In Sank, I died so that I could meet him, in Antarctica, I died under his command, and on Libra, I died for his memory. I imagine that eventually, I will die again, and when I do I will die for his spirit, which I may or may not meet on the other side. He and I are connected, in some ways. We always will be."

"So did you...?"

Love him? Want him? Crave after him? "No..." And yes.

"And what about Noin?"

I sigh softly, a bare breath on my thoughts. "As I said before, I don't deserve her."

"Why not?"

"Because..." I pause, eyes narrowing in concentration. "Because I..." Suddenly, I find that I cannot answer. I choke on air, my eyes wide the realization as I stare at him.

He smiles wryly, his eyes taking an odd violet hue under the overhead lights. "Because you're broken? Because you won't stop dying? Because you cannot stay still? Because you cannot commit to a life of peace?"

He pauses looking thoughtful.

"Because... you're a brick in the walls of war, a piece of red stone that lists that names of those who will go on forever in history as the greatest tragedy, the worst victory this world will ever know?"

He shrugs suddenly, and I just stare at him. But then he grins, foolish and mild tempered, like the joker in a courtroom. "You're acting as if you're the only brick, Zechs. Maybe it's time you saw the entire wall."

"What do you mean?"

He tilts his head and rests his chin in a fist, the casual grin disarmed to a sweet little smile. "Maybe you've forgotten that Noin is a brick too, and that she understands you better than anyone. Maybe you've forgotten that I'm a brick, that we're all bricks and we all support each other. Maybe you've forgotten that... well..." He waves vaguely, but his eyes are shining, and I know that he is speaking to himself, as well as to me.

"...that you're not alone?" My voice is oddly calm, like the briefest flash of light before my eyes as I slip into heaven.

"No," he says, in that same calmed epiphany. "No. That _we _are not alone."

I nod slowly, as the rush takes me. I understand.

He understands.

We all understand.

"So let's start over, Joe." He extends a hand and holds it out to me. "My name is Duo Maxwell. I'm the brick two bricks to your right, and though we have never met, we're both connected, because we all share the same wall. I'm not alone, I never was."

I smile and take his hand, shaking it. "My name is..." I pause, thinking. Then I nod with determination. "My name is Milliardo Peacecraft. I'm the brick two bricks to your left. I am... not alone... and I never was. It's nice to meet you, Duo Maxwell."

"It's nice to meet you too, Milli-man."

"Milliardo, please."

"Milli-man suits you better."


	6. Drunken Lullabies

**Death and the Devil Arc  
**-Drunken Lullabies (alt. ending number 1)

Pairs: 2x6x2, refs to 13x6, 2xH, 1x2

Warning: yaoi (male/male love), language, vulgarity, drunkenness, odd, rough limes, implied lemons (of long, but rough sex), that Cozzy angst/sap stuff, a little bit of the supernatural... kind of. Adult situations, some mention of Duo's Ep 0, some mention of the series (concerning Zechs).

First Note: Unlike the other additions to the arc, this contains TRUE YAOI. As in Zechs and Duo really DO love each other, really DO get down and dirty (for real), and really DO do what every fangirl wants them to do. :coughs innocently: If you are not a yaoi fan (yaoi is male/male love) or are afraid/disturbed/confused/whatever of heavy limes, borderline lemons (implied/not-so-implied sexual content), please do not read this addition of the arc. It is not needed to understand any other addition and is, in some cases, a stand alone. That means you don't have to read this to understand the rest of the story, and you don't need to read the OTHER parts of the arc to understand THIS one. So don't bother if you can't handle it, okay? For newbies, this is an alternate ending to the Death and the Devil Arc. All you need to know is that Duo and Zechs have just met in a bar about a year after EW, and they are drunk (or trying to be). Hehe. You ask, I deliver-eventually. Sorry it took so long.

Second Note: Special thanks to Adrian for his wonderful White Caucasus story. I was really struggling here toward the limey end of the fic, because I don't write lemons, and I never really wrote a lime this heavy before. I was completely losing it (literally) until I got a hold of my Fanboy's WC. He wrote a few _magnificent_ lemons with Zechs and Treize, and it was all the inspiration I needed. Thanks so much, Adrian. It's not a true lemon, and like I said before, I'm not going to write any, but it's as close as I'll get for the time being, and this one's all for you. :huggles: And yes, this is still suitable content for ;D

-

He and I sit at this bar, this small little bar in the middle of absolute nowhere in an unnamed city that I had cared not to remember, a faceless tender tending to my drinks as he fears me, dodges me, stepping on eggshells. He knows my name, my two names, my face, my two faces, my death. He knows, just as everyone knows, how ridiculous I am, how dangerous, how scarred. I'm sure that when they look at me, they see an ugly face. A torn face that has been damaged and ravaged and ripped and shredded beyond all repair.

I am ugly. I have been accused of such in the past.

But he looks at me, Maxwell, the man that I had just met in this bar, and he smiles oddly. His eyes are twinkling with recognition of some idea, some thought, and he nods. He says in a cool crisp voice, the slur of his drink reminiscent"I believe we have a place to go to, Milli-man."

I don't understand what he means by that, but I don't care. He calls me Milliardo-Milli-man being his version of the name-because I told him to call me that... I had introduced myself with that name after speaking to him for a good portion of the hour, and we decided that we would start over, try again, and shake hands. Originally, I had insisted that he call me Joe-or rather, I told the bartender to call me that after he had called me 'Sir.' I did not want to be called Marquise or... that other name... ever again, because that is the past and I have moved beyond such things.

But now me calls me that, he calls me ...Milliard, and I wonder if it is a mistake.

It is hatred, that name. It is dead, and there is no use digging it back up again. I am dead now, forever.

I am, aren't I?

I nod and smile to him, to Maxwell. I know he knows, he probably always knew. "We do have... have to..." I frown, my brain muddled. I have had way too much to drink, and I can't seem to get out the words. Determined, I firm my lips and get on with it. "I have to go somewh're" I slur. "...have to go home."

I laugh, then, wryly. Cold. It is a joke and he knows it.

We are both homeless.

He shrugs yet again, tips back a final swallow of his beer and thumps it back on the counter. Suddenly I am jealous of him, and a little angry, because he is still graceful, he can still speak clearly, he is still beautiful, still calm, still reasonable, still all-fucking-knowing and I am drunk, one disgusting, ugly daddy's boy.

Daddy's boy. I snort.

Scraping back his stool, Maxwell looks at me, at my face, torn and ugly, and gestures me to follow him. I have only just met him an hour and a half ago, but I feel like I have known him for the past three years-oh wait. That's right. I have, haven't I?

He stands, limbs stretching like a cat as he almost crawls out of the bar, his aura black and about as ugly as my face-scarred, covered, gone... but still somehow beautiful. His braid whispers at his back as he sways, the rope a play on other things too dirty to name, and he's wearing the black cap he'd worn when I met him, the mahogany strands spilling over jeweled cobalt eyes, his grin frozen in time. I follow him, my steps unstable, stumbling like a madman as the floor beneath my feet warps with a mind of it's own. I've had too much to drink but somehow not enough, and my body is unbalanced, depraved, shallow, in need for more. Begging, like a slave for his life. Like...

Oh god, it has been so long since I have let go, just felt the air of nothingness and ...let be. It has been so long... since I felt anything... nice...

My breath is shallow as I follow him, and struggling, I feel the weight of the bartender's glance upon my back. I feel all of them looking at me, perhaps judging me, watching me. Waiting for me to come to my senses. I ignore them, ignore all of them. To hell with them! Fuck them all! When you're me, you learn that waiting is a hopeless cause, waiting will get you nothing but killed, over and over and over again. Waiting will get you dead, and believe me, I know what it's like to be dead. Might just as well be buried, might just as well have had a funeral march, complete with sobbing widows and a long line of carpeted black ghosts so nameless I'd hardly care to notice them anymore. I wonder if Noin would play her part, if it happened. I wonder if I would even recognize her, should she attend.

I wonder if Treize would be there, somewhere, perhaps watching from the other side. Smirking, maybe, in that classic suave way of his. He would make a great representation of God, now that I really think about it. I'm sure that if I ever confront the old man, it will be in the form of Treize. He would enjoy that. He was always such a goddamn hypocrite, Treize, but he believed in his morals so fully that he died with them a happy man. He's told me many times that he does not believe in God, but respects the poor old yoke quite seriously. I have never understood Treize. Not in all my years of regretting his existence in my life.

And loving it.

He was the one after Sank, you know. He was the one who found me. It was years later, I admit it, but he was the one who got me into Victoria, he was the one-Trieze Kushrenada was the one-who gave birth to Zechs Marquise. He was the one who gave me the idea, gave me the name, he was the one who persuaded me to use it. He was always the one, in everything he did. He was always just... He had always called me ...Milliard, in private, but he was the one who named me, trained me, raised me all over again and created me, reborn. He was the reason I was in the Alliance in the first place, he was the reason I went after Daigo Onegel, he was the reason I used my revenge through irony... oh he was the reason. So many reasons...

I could blame him for so many things. And thank him. But he and I have always danced a little tango, or waltz, as Marie would tell me.

Hm. Of course, Duo would also be there, at my funeral. I'm sure he'd be there, he'd deliver me over, being Death, so he would be the first to say goodbye. He would definitely be there. Hell, he's probably looking forward to it! Is that where we are going, Duo? Am I really going home?

Everyone had thought I was dead, and I _was_, in a sense. I mean, I have a tombstone with my name on it, two of them (one for Zechs, one for Milliardo...), and I have had a funeral. I am dead, I was dead, my name, my life, my humanity is dead, buried six feet underground. Buried in Sank, next to my parents. King, Queen, Prince... Marquise... dead...

Buried next to Treize, somewhere lost, in a memorial forgotten in time.

No one gave a damn. No one bothered. No one helped, no one came, no one saved me, no one cared. It makes me wonder what the hell the point is. Maybe there isn't a point. I have a child's tombstone in Sank. I have a small coffin. It's right there, in between my mother and father. I would know, I was there when they buried me, when they put up a stone for me with my old name carved on it like some sacrificial rite drenched in blood, hanging over my head. Ha, you know, I was six when I saw it, I suppose it was a bit damaging, but I have a tombstone, as did Relena, until they tore it down. Mine is still there though, as requested, and it says"Milliardo Peacecraft, beloved son. AC173-82."

Ha ha ha... Beloved son... What a fucking joke.

Bloody hell! I need to focus before I lose my damn mind! Stop this! It's not sane.

Bloody hell, indeed. My hands and my face. So bloody... so... stained... dead... scarred...

Ugly.

Heavy strands of white-blonde hair whisper along my face as I try desperately to shake the memories away, all the sounds, the smells, the sights and the screams. I don't want to feel it, see it, hear it anymore, I don't want... I don't...

I watch him, Shinigami, they say, I watch him move for the door. Ahead of me. Leading me home.

No, I want this. I do. I want it badly.

I need it.

I trail Duo's fading form ahead of me. I notice for the first time that he is dressed in gothic black, heavy boots thumping on the wooden floor unusually graceful-not silent, but _graceful_, like a dancer, his long duster coat a buttery leather, smooth, intoxicating, his shirt and jeans both unending, uncompromisingly black. He is deadly, as I see the whole of him; he is the missing piece of the puzzle he himself had been looking for. That I had been looking for. He is everything.

Does he know?

I smile oddly, smile a crooked thing that further scars my face as he waits for me in the doorway, his arm extended out to catch me lest I stumble over like an ass and die too early, fail the game. No, it's not my time yet, and no, I don't think he knows. He does not know he is...

We are equals.

Carefully, I toe one step before the other, and finally make it to the door, the exit of this goddamned bar. I take Duo's hand-Shinigami's hand-and pull myself into him... and I collapse on top of him, partially on purpose, partially because of the alcohol. I breathe in his scent along the way, as if testing the beauty of a rare flower.

Oh god, so rare...

He smells of cinnamon, fiery and alive, with a touch a wood smoke and an odd lemonade. I can also smell the traces of a machine on him, thick grease never fully washed away, grime buried deep from childhood trauma, fear so fossilized it has become one with his soul. I can smell sweat on him, I can smell blood. I can smell Duo on him and I love every second of it.

So bloody rare, too...

I feel a hand touch my face and awkwardly, I try to lick it. I want to taste. As my tongue slides along flesh, I choke out a funny sound-something between joy and sorrow. My eyes heavy, my vision growing dark, I whisper words I have never known to say before. "You tas'e very goo', Shina... Sshinigaam'. C'n I hav' some more"

A chuckle from above me, all around me. Washing me. My body is floating, and I am weightless... so heavy...

"Whatever you want, Joe-Joe. Whatever you need."

My last thoughts before fading out were that I was going to stick him to it, into death.

So be it.

-

He licked me. He licked my hand.

Granted, he's drunk off his ass and depressed as hell, but... Zechs Marquise-Milliardo-fucking-Peacecraft-just _licked_ my _hand_!

Huh. Okay Duo, calm down, it's not like it was intentional. I mean, he can't even talk straight and his eyes are so glassed up he's hardly conscious. Actually... I don't think he _is_ conscious...

Damn. His weight is heavy in my arms, but not uncomfortable, and I scowl at nobody as I realize that I like idea of a blonde sex-god drunk off his ass and vulnerable to me. Wait, wait, wait... what the hell am I saying? This is Zechs Marquise damnit, he's not a fucking whore. I can't take advantage of him, be damned if I want to...

God. Noin was a lucky woman when she had him, and Treize... well I still dunno what Zechs meant when I asked him about it, but either way Treize was a lucky guy. They're both lucky, anyone who can have a piece of this is lucky. I don't entirely mean the looks either, although Zechs is a beautiful man-okay a _very _beautiful man with _very _nice hair and a _very _nice bod, but that's not the point. Zechs is... well, he's just...

Getting to know him for the last hour, getting to see him as he slowly opened up like a blossom to sunshine, getting feel him, to understand him, I realized that...

That...

Hell. What did I realize? I guess I just like Zechs. I like the way he watches over a crowd, assessing the good from the bad, weakness from strength, escape routes, offensive positions, and the ever present lord-to-servant, higher authority to lower authority. Not cocky, but a faint hint of truth. He is better. He is taller. He is royalty, whether he will admit it or not.

He has a certain amount of power over me, and the rest of the damned world.

But the funny thing is, when Zechs looks at me, he doesn't look at me the way he looks at everyone else in the bar. He looks at the others in the bar like he is responsible for them, like he needs to care after them, and protect them, but when he looks at me he sees an equal and he knows, feels, that I can protect myself. When he looks at me, he sees the same royalty, the same respect, and he probably feels that I could protect his crowd the way he does, will always do.

Personally, I could give a damn about the other people, the innocent ones, but Zechs Marquise will always care about them no matter my opinion, always care for others before himself. He even died that way. Twice.

He has fallen on top of me, fallen into my arms like angel from heaven, and he trusts me enough to take him home, put him away where he will be safe. He trusts me. Why the hell would he trust me? I am not one to be trusted. I hurt people. I kill them. I...

But...

Why do _I _feel like I can trust _him_?

God. What the hell is going on here? Why... no _when_ did life just do a one-eighty on me?

I shove the questions back into my mind and concentrate. First, haul Zechs out of the bar, then we can talk. Right? Good.

I shift his heavy body in my arms, trying to find a better position to carry him. He's both taller and bigger than I am, even after the massive growth spurt I'd had after the war, and I find him extremely heavy. So I resort to resting most of his upper body on my shoulders and I half-drag half-carry him out in a stagger.

He mutters something into my neck and I get some mad heebie-jeebies running through me, hormones running wild. I almost stumble over in the brunt of it, but then I catch myself at the last minute and pant my last two steps to my beautiful baby car, Deathscythe-okay"mini Deathscythe." Whatever. Happy? Fingers numb from the cold, my breath in a fog, his subtle shivers running through me, I grab the handle and yank open the door. I know I'm getting a few stares, but I don't entirely give a damn, and I land a controlled fall of Zechs's body into the front passenger seat, gently setting him back and checking to make sure I didn't hurt anything. It's odd, he's stronger than I am, and I'm worried about hurting him. But I check anyway, my hand running over ancient scars, feeling his legs, his thighs, his chest, his...

Stop Duo. Stop.

My hands grow a life of their own and they reach up for that beautiful white mane of hair. I curse my weaknesses, I curse my hands, my damned stupid hands, they won't stop touching him. Damnit! What am I doing? What the hell-

My fingers sift through the strands, caressing his scalp, and I brush back the bangs in his eyes. They just fall back, so I brush them yet again, over and over, marveling at how soft his hair is. My hair is firm and strong; you could pull a tractor-trailer with my hair, not that I'd recommend it. Though I've been accused that it has a nice texture, it's not silk, it's not _soft_. Zechs's hair is soft. Silk. Smooth. Like butter.

God...

I could touch it forever, it's so addicting. I find myself wondering what kind of shampoo he uses, and the conditioners. How often he must brush the thing, and does he carry a pocket mirror? Lord, if I had hair like _this_, I would carry an entire set of brushes and hair care products. Hell, I'd become the baddest selfish bastard in the entire Earth Sphere. I'd never leave a fucking mirror.

I have to wonder how Zechs can be the way he is, so damned sacrificing in everything he does, when he has hair like this. It's a sin.

I feel my fingers brushing, caressing, and I still can't stop. I think I've lost my mind, but really, I can't blame myself. No, wait. C'mon, Duo. Stop. What if he wakes up? What if he finds you doing this to him? What would he do? He'd kill you, slaughter you, maim you to pieces. God he'll be pissed, he'll be-

A moan. Or a groan. Or maybe both.

I didn't make that sound, just so you all know.

And because of that little fact, it goes straight down my spine, rumbles in my stomach, pinches my heart and does a zigzag down to my groin, which seems very happy about the situation. My fingers still, then itch, begging for that soft, smooth hair, and so naturally, I do it again.

I have very little will power, I think.

His lips are parted, a faint puff of smoke breathing out of them in the cold air. It's only November, but it's still freaking cold, and I wonder vaguely why I'm still standing like an idiot with the car door open, watching Zechs like some spell-bound slave to his master.

Or something.

I shake my head, and pull away. He moves, shifts toward my heat, makes another sound, as if in protest, and mutters again. Then he stills and he's dead to the world. I shut the car door before my weak-willed hands decide to do something very naughty and ruin our little peaceful moment together, ending my life painfully and no doubt messily, once and for all. Despite everything, I am not, repeat _not_ suicidal.

Slowly, very slowly, I walk around the car to the driver's side, and hesitate. I can see him in the window, head down against the glass, knees almost curled inward, shoulders hunched, hair spilling everywhere. He is beautiful, yes. But now, when I really look at him, he's also depressing. Sad. I want to make him happy, I realize suddenly. I want to make him smile.

Really smile.

Hm. He's not going anywhere, and from what I've learned, he and Noin didn't work out too well. He's alone, I'm alone, and we're both young men in need of a good fuck. Maybe a relationship isn't too bad of an idea?

Maybe it's okay?

Maybe... maybe we can do it? Right?

I'm an open minded sort of guy. I take what I can get, male, female, blonde, brown, blue. I don't care, so long as it has the ability to make me happy for a few blissful seconds. At one point, that happy second came from Hilde, and it didn't work out. It also came from Heero-very secretly-in a way even Hee-bear probably doesn't realize.

In both cases, it was always out of need. It was always out of _want_. I didn't love Hilde that way, I loved her as a sister. And I didn't love Heero that way, I loved him as a partner. No. But Zechs? I look at him and I can't help the smile. Not a happy, stupid-in-love smile, but a simple, dumb, guy-smile. A I-found-my-chick, smile. A my-god-he's-beautiful smile. A happy smile. A rough smile. A carefree, gotta-love-life smile.

I could love Zechs, given the effort. I'm sure I could. Maybe.

I could love him, care for him, and not be afraid that he'll die on me.

I just could.

I could, because I know, deep down, that when I look at him, I don't see a good fuck. When I look at him, I don't see a sex god, don't see the use and abuse of unspeakable organs in the body. I don't see stars.

I see Zechs. For the first time in my life, I see someone, a person (not an organ), someone other than family that I can love. And care about.

Maybe.

In time.

As quietly as possible, so as not to disturb him, I open the diver's side door and slip in. I shut it as gently as possible, put the key into the ignition, and set off into the sunset.

I head back to my motel room, since I have no idea where Zechs is staying, and I honestly don't want him out of my sights, now that I've grabbed him, hook line and sinker.

Yes, he's mine.

I'm going to make him mine.

And I'm going to make him smile when I do it.

If I can do that... maybe I'll smile too. Honestly.

-

I had a dream. I can't remember what I dreamed about, but I had a dream, a terrible, beautiful, horrible, sincere, great dream.

And then it died, disappeared, slipped from my fingers, and I woke to the feeling of my stomach in my throat, my brain split down the middle, my mind bleeding from the after effects of hangover. Without thinking, I lurched up, stumbled my way though an unfamiliar room and guessed the right door to the bathroom. By miracle (and instinct), I was right, and I didn't even bother to flip on the light as I stumbled across the small space to the toilet. I barely had the time to lift the lid before I started to blow chunks, and I fell down on my knees and gave in to the God of Drunks.

I hug the filthy, slimy, goddamned ugly toilet bowl for my all worth as I slump against the wall, spilling vomit after vomit. Somewhere, I hear a noise, and in the haze of pain and a last go at my throat, I look up to see Duo Maxwell leaning in the doorway with a smirk on his face. He seems amused, perhaps touched that he would be allowed to witness the downfall that is Milliardo Peacecraft first hand, but I don't really care that much anymore and lean back, gulping for air and feeling sorry for myself.

Goddamnit, why couldn't he be down here, with his face in a toilet bowl? Why couldn't he throw shit up from his stomach right along side me? He drank the same amount that I did, but I'm down here and he's up there, perfectly sober and definitely not suffering from a hangover.

I think I hate him, if only because of that.

He must have read something in my face, because he answered my thoughts and my hatred died on the spot.

"Doc S and a lifetime of good resistance" he shrugged with pure causality. "I can't get drunk. At least not easily. Can't get high either. Or wasted."

So at least some of the rumors were true. When they'd captured him during the war, I heard that they had a hard time containing him because their truth drugs weren't working and beating him was pretty much useless. They'd tried every single drug they had, even tried getting him drunk, and nothing worked. After that, they grew more and more frustrated until they reportedly tortured him illegally. But that just pissed Shinigami off, and that's where the real horror stories begin.

Looking at him now, in person, I have to wonder what they saw before they died. I have to wonder what would really scare a man to death.

I shudder, and another wave of nausea hits me. My mouth kisses the seat as I choke up acid, losing all the food I'd had in my stomach. Duo steps closer, kneels down and puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. After it's over, I lean back, bitterly shove his hand away, and close my eyes. God, I have a fucking headache...

He steps away, and I hear a cabinet being slid open. There's a rattle of pills, a pop of a cap, a clink of glass being lifted from the porcelain sink, and water running. Then he's next to me again, that hand on my shoulder, and he says my name.

"Milliard."

I flinch involuntarily before I can help myself. I open my eyes, and find his palm extended with one white little pill and a glass of water. Duo smiles and tilts his head to the sink, where a bottle of aspirin rests. "For the headache" he said in an oddly quiet voice. "I bought it an hour ago for you, since I knew you'd need it. You can have the whole bottle if you want, that stuff will never work on me, even if I do get a headache. Sucks, really."

I lift an eyebrow, curious. "You bought a bottle of aspirin for me"

He just grins, oddly, and shrugs again, nudging the pill and the glass of water forward. I squint my eyes, my head pounding, and acknowledge the fact that aspirin would be nice. So I take the pill, and the water, and drown them.

What do I care, anyway? Duo has no reason to poison or drug me, and if he wants me to succumb to his will, I'm already vulnerable and slightly willing. I have nothing else to lose.

After drinking down the entire glass, I can feel my stomach rumble, but then relax. I stand up and wobble back to the bedroom as I brush passed Duo and fall back down on the mattress. I don't even ask as he follows in behind me, and I feel the mattress dip down to support his weight. He lays down on his side of the bed, his back to me, and goes to sleep.

I stuff my head into the pillow, cursing my head, biology, and the fact that even though I proved a formidable enemy against all of the gundam pilots combined, I'm still considered a normal fucking human being.

Damn.

-

Several hours pass and I sleep like a baby. He does too, though he complains while he does it, the occasional run to the bathroom his only interruption into oblivion. I heard the bottle of aspirin rattle more than once, and I know he's going to take it when he leaves here, with or without my prodding. When I told him that I bought the medicine for him, he looked... odd, but not in a bad way. It seems that I still have a chance with him, however faint.

I'm not going to mention it to him yet, though. I want him healthy, semi-happy and willing when I approach the subject.

Maybe tomorrow.

I grunt as I sit up, laughing softly when my stomach rumbles and hunger pains eat at me. God, I'm starving. When's the last time I'd eaten?

I look over at Zechs and find that he's still out like a light. He's been in and out all day, obviously exhausted from life, tragedy and the ghosts that he's confronted in the last few hours. And will confront again.

His hair is a mess and it needs to be combed, as does mine. He is also sprawled in the blankets, one knee out, against his chest, the other down and away, shunned. His arms are wrapped around him, his face tucked down and hidden, his body relaxed, but somehow tense, and shivering, as if in the midst of a nightmare.

I watch as the shivering grows, and he makes an odd pained noise, shifting in his sleep. The free leg slowly draws up to join the one at his chest and his curls in on himself, hiding from some horrible, inescapable pain.

No, he's not relaxed at all. He's tense as a fuckin' board.

He makes another noise, this one slightly louder. I know for a fact that he's having a nightmare, a bad one, and don't want him to suffer it. Without thinking, I put a hand to his hair, and start sifting my fingers through it. He shivers even greater, climaxes with the pain, but then relaxes, very softly, and tumbles back down to oblivion. His hair is a tangled mess, and he needs to have it combed. Coming to a decision, I pull away, pick up the phone and dial out. I order dinner, than dig into my bag, looking for my good brushes and an extra hair tie.

-

I wake and this time, I feel better. I can smell pepperoni, cheese, and garlic. I can smell food, specifically pizza. It smells good.

I haven't eaten since yesterday, so I open my eyes, and sit up. My stomach growls, announcing the situation, and I hear a laugh. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I look around, finding Duo on the edge of the bed holding three different black brushes, and a hair tie. There is a pizza box on a table in the corner of the motel room, and stare at it hungrily.

Duo shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. "Not yet. You need to wash up first, you're a mess, Millie-man."

I notice that he's already taken a shower and that his hair is in a fresh braid, still damp from the water. He's also in different clothes, still black, and still somewhat gothic. He looks good in them, I notice, but then I slap myself and I try to remember that it shouldn't matter what he looks like, because I'm not going to do anything with him anyway.

Right.

He tilts his head, and motions for me to slide toward him. I do, feeling that there's no reason I shouldn't and... well... why not? I've got nothing else to lose, right? He slides around me, the weight shifting smoothly on the mattress, and there is a moment of stillness. Hm. I knew what he was planning when I saw the brush and the hair tie, but I was still surprised when I felt the familiar tug of my hair. He put the brush into my hair, and started _combing_. Combing. Combing my hair for me. No one had ever done that before, so I pull away and look at him.

He is not smirking when I turn around. He is not smug or foolish or grinning or even amused. He's just... Duo. I think. I don't know him well enough, but I know that what I saw on his face was not a joke. He simply wants to do this for me. Honestly.

"Don't worry Joe" he says in a soft voice. I shiver, because it is so odd. Odd that it feels right, odd that I like that voice. I hardly know him, but I like the way he says that name, the names that he calls me, whether it's my birth name or a pet name.

They're all my names, when he says them. Mine. I like feeling that way, I think.

He smiles impishly, and motions me to turn around again. "...Just relax."

Relax. Let it be.

Just...

Let go.

Right.

I close my eyes as the brush pulls the snarls out of my hair, massaging my scalp gently, but firmly. It feels good, I note, and then my world slowly dwindles down to Duo's body heat against me, his hands in my hair, the combs picking apart the knots, sifting, swimming, swirling, loving my hair.

Loving me, I think.

Maybe.

I'm almost sure of it...

-

I spent almost an entire hour combing that mane. It didn't need an hour, but god, I wanted to extend it as far as I could, already addicted to the feel of his silk in my fingers, and the little sounds that he makes occasionally, ones that I'm sure he doesn't even know about.

Every time he made a sound like that, I just about lost it. But for him, I kept my control and told myself this is _not_ a random romp, this, if I can help it, will be the real fucking thing. I've never had it before, and I'll be damned if I know what I'm doing, but I won't let this fall away on a mistake. I need to know that he wants it.

And now, after this, I'm almost sure of it.

After all snarls, knots, and tension are out of the way, I start to gather his hair into a tail. I reach up across his temples and slide up his neck, brush against his cheek and pull his hair into an even mass at the back of his head. Holding it in a fist, I let the stragglers drop down and ready the hair tie, tying back the tail tightly, but naturally, so it hangs free from his shoulders. It's a fairly long tail that reaches down passed his shoulder blades, and it god, does it look good on him. The stray pieces that escaped frame around his cheeks and down his neck, behind his ears. With a soft, strange sigh, he reaches back and touches the tail, pulls it and runs it through his fingers. Then he turns around and looks at me, his head tilted with a frown on his face.

"Why did you do that"

I grin, a cover for my nervousness. "Because you look sexy as hell with it" I say before I can stop myself, but the words are already spoken. He looks at me odd for a minute or two before nodding and looking away. He thinks I'm joking, I'm sure of it. I don't know if that's good or bad.

"I like it" he says firmly, as if coming to an important decision. "It feels lighter. Less..." He squints, looking into the distance, trying to find the right word. He struggles.

My big mouth jumps the bandwagon yet again. "...Exposed"

He stares at me, his eyes widening. With an epiphany, he nods and says"Yes. That's exactly what it is." And he blushed. Actually, god be my witness, _blushed_. "...Thank you."

Huh. Okay Duo, don't go awkward on me, keep talking. Smooth your way outta this mess, c'mon...

"Oh uh... Heh, you're welcome." My heart lurched. Great Duo. Just great.

I firmly stamp down on the thoughts and shake my head. I'm still hungry as hell, and I know he is too. I stand up, grab the box and sit back down on the bed. "The pizza's gone cold" I say, as I open the box. But then I shrug. "...but cold pizza's the best."

He smiles, nods, and eagerly grabs a slice. He must be hungry, I've never thought Zechs for a pizza hog. I shrug, grab my own slice and eat as I watch him eat, who watches me eat right back. He eats it slowly, savoring, but not too slow, not too fast. I ordered pepperoni and mushroom, with extra cheese and he seems to enjoy it. It's nice when people have the same tastes that I do. It's rare for me.

After he finishes his slice, he huffs a wry smoke of air and cracks his first joke all night. "That's the best pizza I've ever had." I grin and nod, but he just shrugs and grabs another. "Hungry" he grunts.

I laugh. "Duo hungry too" and I grunt loudly in return, for emphasis.

He smiles, oddly soft, and savors the rest of his slice. I pick up a third while he finishes his second slice, and grabs another. We stare at each other for a minute, and I'm not entirely sure what we're both thinking, but then I see him shake his head slightly, clearing a thought away, before munching down on the pizza again.

I finish my third slice and sigh contentedly, debating on whether to grab another or not. The pizza is from a local little place, the best in town, and the slices are not conservative. Each one is big enough to make people like me happy, and even my bottomless pit of a stomach isn't sure of how much more it can handle.

Zechs finishes his third as well and smiles, obviously on the same train of thought. We stare at each other for about a minute before both our hands reach into the box for a forth one anyway. To hell with it! If it's one thing I've learned, it's that you never waste the chance for good food, be damned if you're hungry or not.

But the piece I'm holding is pulled and I look down, only to discover that Zechs and I have grabbed the same slice. He lets go before I do and so I take it from him, grinning awkwardly because in a way, it's very funny. He coughs, grabs another and looks back to me. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he's suddenly paralyzed again, watching me, unable to move. I have to wonder what I could possibly do that makes Zechs Marquise of all fuckin' people freeze on the spot, but then I shake the thought away and remember that this is a good thing, could be a good thing. He's obviously struggling with something, something about me, and I have a funny feeling that it's not my suave sense of humor nor my dashing good looks.

Or well, that could be part of it, but that's not the entire picture, I know. I can see it in the way he's looking at me right now. Wide eyed, mouth slightly parted, dirty images flashing before his pupils. That hair is pulled back, tightly bound at the back of his head, and he looks protected, safe, strong... stable.

Suddenly, I want him vulnerable. I want him open, off kilter, unstable. I want him unsheathed, the real deal, the passion, the fire that he is underneath. I want him in all his glory, and I just can't help myself.

I don't care anymore. I don't care. That look is there, he wants it, and I'm not going to fuck around with him anymore. Well... I am, but no more wasting time.

We need this. We need it badly.

We need it _now_.

I put my slice back down in the box and lean in to kiss those very much kissable lips.

-

Before I know what's going on, his lips are on mine and he's kissing me. He's... my god, he's fucking _kissing_ me. Me! What the hell is going on? Where did the world suddenly go? What-

Sanity has just flown out the window, darling. It's just you and me now, and we have the rest of time to take advantage of it. Gotta love life, seize the day, carpe diem. Don't just sit there, Milliard, go on... Kiss the fool back! You know you want to.

He's just so hot and bothered, so damned rough, so damn... go on...

I think if Treize's ghost were in the room, he would whispering in my ear, goading me on.

Bastard.

Before I can fully control the thoughts flooding through my mind, I take his head into my hands and plunge deep into his mouth, stealing his breath for my own. His kiss was tender and sweet, but I am not tender and sweet, and I don't need or want tender and sweet. If it's going down, I want it all the way down, and I want it rough. It's going to burn.

He makes a growl from deep in his belly, almost feral, and holds my own head, his fingers digging into my hair, scratching, clawing at my skull. His tongue wars with mine, and we tango, dancing to a beat only sex-driven beasts could understand, an unrelenting tempo that years of evolution and revolution have failed to diminish. Images flash before my eyes-his own eyes, deep jeweled cobalt flecked almost violet, almost black in the bad lighting of the motel. His chestnut bangs shroud them in mystery, tickling his forehead and intermingling with mine as we mash our mouths together, trying to eat each other alive.

Teeth clash, tongues are bitten, lips bleed, and lungs starve for air. For a moment, I thought I would die, and I thought he would die with me, but then he pulls away, shoving me back and wipes his mouth with the back his arm, a beastly grin on his lips. His eyes are dangerous, hungry, eager.

I know that I'm looking at him in the same way, and I swipe a tongue across my own lips, licking the blood away. He's chewed them pretty bad, but I don't care; his tongue is bleeding and he's favoring the inside of his right cheek.

And suddenly, I choke out a laugh. It ruins the feral touch in the air, and his grin softens to a confused frown as the laugh I laugh grows into an insane thing, haggard, but funny, and wry to the core. It takes a few minutes for me to calm down and I shake my head relentlessly, finding the entire situation bloody ridiculous.

He lifts an eyebrow, and tilts his head to the side. If his lips weren't swollen, his breaths shallow, he would have looked innocent.

Right.

I laugh a little harder, and fall backwards. He's looking at me now like I've lost my mind, but I did, so it doesn't matter. He leans over me, looking down from above, and brushes a callused hand along my cheek. "What's so funny" He sounds almost indignant.

I calm down, wipe the sudden tears that had gone down my cheeks, and sit up again. He pulls back, stares at me, while I look down and stare at my hands. Like his, my hands are callused, born and bred for battle, itching for the trigger of a gun and graceful with the blade of justice. I've carried a variety of weapons, even this one, this feral, beastly love, and I have never felt this way before. My hands are shaking, literally shaking out of... something. Fear? It doesn't feel like fear.

More like anticipation. Need, perhaps.

Oh but, damn, do I need...

"Milliard"

I flinch again, and look at him. The tears have stopped, had stopped when I stopped laughing, but now I don't know if they were happy tears, hysterical tears, depressed tears... all of the above...

I stare at him. Really, really stare. He may be shorter, smaller, younger, but he's got tough skin, hard muscles, attitude and purpose. He's a man in every single way, and he walks like he could and would take the life of a king with the breath of one word. He walks like a cobra, like a goddamned snake, but I know, have always known, that he is the single most honest man I could ever meet. He'll twist, turn, run and hide, but he doesn't lie. Does he?

I could trust him. I have trusted him.

That's more than enough for me.

"You're the last person I would have ever kissed" I say in a hazy voice. My vision is a little blurry, my throat dry. I grip my hands into fists and grit my teeth. I choke out another laugh, smile still wry. "But you know... you kiss... you kiss just like..."

I can't get it out. I can't say anything. A tear bursts, rolls, spills, falls, drops, tumbles down to the sheets of the bed. I can feel them, feel them all rolling, leaving silken paths behind them, staining my face, marking me... bleeding me... I have never cried before. Not even in my kingdom's death. I didn't cry at my funeral, I didn't cry when Treize died. I have never cried, ever, in my entire life.

So why would I cry now?

"Zechs" he sighs and shifts closer. His hand hovers over my shoulder, uncertain what to do. I grab it, take it in my hands and kiss it. I kiss it, and then I laugh into it. I stare at his hand, his beautiful hand, callused, scarred, dirty with blood that will never wash away. Hands that have killed millions. Hands that have ripped out another man's trachea. Hands that could take my own life in one half of a second, should there be a need or a want.

Hands like mine.

Like ...his, even.

My smile grows wider and I look up. He thinks I've lost my mind, but again, I did, so it doesn't matter.

"You kiss like Treize" I say in a half-whisper. "You kiss... You kiss just like"

He grabs me and pulls me into him. He puts his lips to my forehead, my temple, down my jaw line, under my neck. He bites softly, nibbling, and then licks apologetically. He says nothing, and I say nothing.

We don't say anything.

-

We took it slow. Unlike the kiss, the sex was slow. Sweet. Hard, but slow and sweet. Not tender, not soft, but...

It lasted for hours, I think, though I lost track of the time. I wanted to make him feel, I wanted to pump all that pain out of him so that he could breathe again.

I think, tomorrow night, it may be my turn. Once I make him better, he'll switch the tides on me, and make me scream my own pain. I'm sure he will. He would. He'd enjoy that.

Revenge is sweet, isn't it? All's fair in the love and war, my beautiful devil. Death loves you too damned much to refuse you the glory.

And I do love you. I love you now, and I know I love you because you can't make love if there isn't anything to make it _with_. And we made love. I'm sure that's what lovemaking is, I'm sure that's the difference. I'm new to this whole slow sex scenario, but it feels different than whoring. It feels different than those quickies in the clubs and the jack-offs with Heero stuck in my head. It feels different than the forced-luster that was Hilde, feels different than anything.

If it's different... it's gotta be better. It can't get worse, and it doesn't feel bad. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

So I think I love him. Maybe. Probably.

Does it matter?

I'm resting mostly on top of him, my chin over his shoulder, kissing the skin just at the end of his jaw to the beginning of his ear. He loves it there, and he moans in his sleep, a heavy shiver running through him. I run my fingers through his now-unbound hair, and whisper random thoughts to him, confessions, secrets that I have told no one. I can tell him anything, he could tell _me_ anything, this I know from our meeting in the bar. From our actions last night. We have started this relationship on confession, and I want to continue the tradition. We're honest together. We don't hide.

It would be nice to have someone to share my stories with. It feels good, being able to give voice to them.

He sleeps, but I know he listens. It had been intense and it knocked him right out, but that's what I wanted from him, so it's okay. I cleaned us both up long ago, and put the remaining pizza into the trash because whatever we haven't... ahem, used, fell on the floor. When I'd finished cleaning, he'd practically grabbed me and forced me to his chest like some obscure security blanket, a teddy bear to cuddle and feel safe. He was asleep the entire time, but he had gotten addicted to my heat, and maybe even my presence in his life.

Idly, I nip at his neck, licking and sucking, stroking my fingers through his hair. He tastes so good. I can't describe that taste, it's just him, and my tongue loves to roll in it. If I could eat him, I would. I would cook him a huge pot and make a stew out of him.

I bite particularly hard with that thought, and he whimpers-fucking _whimpers_-stirring in his sleep. I nuzzle apologetically and kiss him softly. He relaxes, stills, grows completely dead to the world again. I whisper some more into his ear, telling him about Solo, and how he died, telling him about Shinigami, telling him about the thievery, the manipulation, the drugs, the sex, the rape, the death, the sickness...

I tell him everything and I feel lifted. I feel listened to. I feel elated.

I feel whole.

And he sleeps on, at peace for probably the first time in several years. It makes me remember what he said to me, after that kiss, it makes me remember the laugh, the obscure, wry, mad... so damn sad...

I remember what he said about Treize.

Suddenly, a cold breeze bites at the back of my neck and I shiver. I can feel a presence, very subtle. Not dangerous, just cold, old, distant... An instinctive fear bubbles inside of me before I stamp down on it.

I smile. I know a ghost when I feel one. I'm death, after all.

"You don't need to worry" I whisper to the walls. "He's not alone anymore."

There is a breath along Zechs's cheek. It is not mine. It is a cold, chilled fog, a soft puff of air. Zechs shivers in my arms, and mutters something, a name, a memory.

The breath lingers, kissing Zechs's skin before vanishing. The room warms. The presence fades.

And my voice whispers truth.

"You're welcome, Treize... and thank you."

-

I wake and he is still there.

That's all I know, that's all I care about, and I don't bother to move.

It's morning, finally, I can feel it. I'm not entirely sure how many days have passed, how many hours, but it's hard to consider that not too long ago, a week perhaps, maybe a century, I had been alone and completely given up on life. I had been so depressed, so down, I was literally suicidal. I know I was getting there. I know that's where I was headed.

But then so had he, the man in my arms. And together, we fixed that. Two souls in misery, fire burning, lusting for love. We gave each other what we needed, we helped each other. We're not alone anymore, we never were.

Duo was right. That last moment in the bar, he was right.

We're not alone. I never was alone. I never will be alone.

And if I am alone, we're all alone. Every last one of us. Alone together.

He had said that we are all names in the walls of war, every last one of us dead with a story to tell and a tear to cry, a voice to the memory that we shall not be forgotten. We were sacrificed for the greater good, we were tossed into hell so the others could go to heaven. We are all scarred, and together, we're not alone.

I reintroduced myself to him as Milliardo Peacecraft in that moment, a name that I had neglected for years. Even in that last battle, it was a curse, not a name. Not what it was born to be.

He tries to call me Milliard, like we agreed to do, and every time he speaks it I flinch involuntarily. But someday I won't flinch, I won't curl away, I won't shudder with pain, and that will be the day that I finally understand what happened last night.

I feel clean. My face isn't as bloody as it was a few nights ago. I feel... different. Better. Not healed, not earth-shattering-contentedness, but just... I feel different. I feel better. I feel like I've found something that could really help me understand things. There is so much that has happened in my life, things that don't make sense to me, and perhaps he can help me.

He has helped me. He's here, with me. He's still here after last night... he didn't leave.

He didn't...

He stirs and opens his eyes. He must have seen something in my face, because he reaches up and traces a finger along my jaw. With a small, strange smile, he crawls closer and presses his lips against mine, willing me to smile, to brighten, to feel better.

Morning breath and all, he plunges slowly, deep into my mouth, drawing a long, low, moan from me.

He grins. "Stop brooding, Millie-man. Though you look cute when you brood, you've had enough brooding to last a lifetime. Maybe ten of em." He dips back down, and seizes another kiss, this one a touch more rough, and that insidious little grin widens. "Learn to love life for a change. Smile a bit. Take a deep breath, let all the worries evade you, and just live. Let me take care of the rest, 'kay"

His head lowers... and lowers... and lowers... and I feel him slide down my body, under the sheets. My last coherent word for next half-hour was"Okay..."

And life just got a while lot brighter.

I saw stars.

-

**Ah, but maybe it's the way you were taught  
Or maybe it's the way we fought  
But a smile never grins without tears to begin  
For each kiss is a cry we all lost  
Though there is nothing left to gain  
But for the banshee that stole the grave  
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies  
**

- Flogging Molly

-

A/N: Came out better than I imagined, and a good deal longer. My first orange/almost-lemon, if you will. How'd I do? This is really my view on what would happen if, somehow, Zechs and Duo did hook up. I've always believed that Duo would be the overall top in the relationship, and that it WOULDN'T be sappy/fluffy at all... but rough. I don't know why, but I see a lot of rough sex in the two of them. It might be my dirty mind, but can you blame me? Heh... if you're a lemon writer, you're more than welcome to write a lemon based on this thing. I want it, so just ask and rant with me, okay?I do want to see a lemon for this part of the story (imagine the hotness!), but I, being stubborn, won't write it. I'm not a lemon writer... at all. Hehe.


End file.
